


Never Let Me Go

by Redlance



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-11-11 01:28:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redlance/pseuds/Redlance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When H.G. gets a very unexpected visitor she learns that she is not the only person who excels at finding the things she wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Let Me Go

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Characters of Warehouse 13 do not belong to me, sadly. I’m just borrowing them for a while, but I’ll put them back once I’m done. Inspired by [this utterly fantastic gif](http://fuckyeahpervyfangirls.tumblr.com/post/7184709000/myka-leaves-the-warehouse-and-finds-hg-to-get-her). Title is taken from the song by Florence and The Machine.
> 
> A/N: I've written NC-17 stuff before, but I've never written anything quite like this. So, despite previous dabbling, I'd consider this to be my first 'proper' NC-17. Be gentle with me. ;) A huge, HUGE thank you to alittlebit-aces. Who basically did everything from read over this, to encourage, to reassure me it wasn't a pile of crap. And also gave me the title.

* * *

     Part of her is surprised by how taken aback H.G. seems to be upon opening the door of her hotel room to find Myka leaning against the frame. Another part of her is thrilled at the prospect of being able to take the mastermind off guard. She watches as the Englishwoman blinks once, slowly, as if testing to see if Myka will still be there when her eyes open again, and then Myka feels another kind of thrill run through her as H.G. gives her a tortuously thorough once-over. She leaves ashes and scorch marks in the wake of her travelling gaze, it burns Myka's skin as the inventor's eyes trail over the length of her entire body and then back up again. And then Myka can't help but feel just a little bit amused by the conflicted look H.G. Wells is wearing. Like she's suddenly being offered a deliciously tantalizing contraption that she'd like to pull apart, piece by piece, but she doesn't yet know if she's allowed to touch it. Myka's blood boils at the thought of deft fingers seeking, and finding, that spot that, when pressed, will cause her to just fall apart. Like hitting a 'disassemble' button, every inch of her would be laid bare.  
     Of course, Myka can't blame the woman for looking at her like that. She is dressed rather differently from the last time they'd crossed paths. But Myka didn't think showing up in her work suit would have produced quite the same effect as a skin-tight black dress that ends so far from her knees, it might as well have just been called a shirt. A really short shirt.  
     Any fallen composure, as unnoticeable as it might be, is swept back up with with an effortless grace, but Myka sees it. Just like she's seen every other minuscule gesture that has utterly betrayed H.G.'s obvious interest. After all, that's Myka's job; to see things that others do not. To push everything else aside and weed out those important things that she can use to her advantage.  
     And this might just be the furthest thing from 'her job', but it's certainly no exception.  
     “Agent Bering,” H.G. says, all perfect diction and lilting tones, “what an unexpected pleasure.” And Myka can't help but smirk at that, a private joke that the other woman isn't yet privy to. Pushing herself from the door frame, she takes one long stride forward, placing herself in the smaller woman's personal space. She sees H.G.'s grip on the door tighten, just slightly, but other than that there's no movement from her. She smiles then, her eyes never leaving bottomless brown orbs, and her voice comes as a low whisper as she leans in.  
     “You have no idea.” And then she has her hand on H.G.'s chest and is applying pressure, pushing her back far enough into the hotel room so that she can step over the threshold and close the heavy door behind her. H.G. falters in her usually unflappable stance as Myka's hand leaves her and the tall brunette lets herself fall back against the wooden surface, dropping the small handbag she'd brought with her to land somewhere at her feet. There's a loud click, and then without looking Myka reaches up to flip the lock into place. H.G. arches a solitary eyebrow at her, but says nothing. Myka licks an immaculately painted lower lip before she ensnares it between bright white teeth.  
     She doesn't do this kind of thing. She's Myka Bering, book enthusiast and occasional ass-kicker. **This** kind of thing is entirely beyond her scope of comprehension. Usually.  
     It seems as though the inventor can elicit all kinds of exceptions from her.  
     “Would you care to enlighten me, then?” She lets H.G.'s voice wash over her. It seems the rogue agent from Warehouse 12 can arouse **many** things in Myka, by varying means. It obviously hadn't been the first thing she'd noticed about the time traveller, but the accent hadn't been that far behind. She's never really been a person overly affected by different dialects and they'd been in London at the time, there was English politeness all about her, but there was only one **her**. And even in the chaos, Myka had noticed her. Couldn't help but notice her. And she'd gone from their mark to Myka's saviour in what seemed like such a short amount of time, but Myka had been flying with H.G. Wells and had barely noticed its passing.  
     Maybe it was intense hero-worship, misguided and childish.  
     But the things running through Myka's mind as she stares at the woman before her are so very adult, they almost make her blush. Instead, they just twist the coil of desire tighter in the pit of her stomach and she feels it quiver, threatening to break apart from the pressure.  
     She doesn't do this kind of thing, but she pulls a hand from its resting place against the door behind her and is reaching out anyway.  
     “Not verbally.” Her voice is husky, like she's practised it, but she hasn't. She supposes it just 'the Wells effect'. Myka's fingers fist themselves in H.G.'s crisp white shirt and now she really does look surprised. Myka wonders if its because H.G. isn't used to having the reins of control ripped so effortlessly away from her or if it's just that she never expected this from the well put together agent of Warehouse 13. Who's usually so 'by the book' it's almost become a form of OCD. And yet she's breaking every single rule in the damn thing just being in this room, with this woman, never mind what she's about to do. But that knowledge isn't enough to stop her. She's not sure a freight train careening through the side of the building would be enough to stop her. Because the burning need she's been feeling for weeks now has finally built to an inferno and the only thing she can think that has any chance of putting it out is adding more fuel to the fire.  
     Of course, she's perhaps not thinking entirely clearly.  
     But then she's pulling H.G. towards her by the front of her shirt and they're breaths apart, and all thoughts just evaporate.  
     Only to explode once more into existence as her lips finally touch the ones she's been worrying her own over and there's an explosion behind her eyes, lighting the fuse of some carefully restrained hunger.  
     Myka moans, her free hand rising to grip the back of a slender neck and bring foreign lips impossibly closer, because she wants to map every inch of this new and uncharted territory. She licks at H.G.'s mouth and feels a shudder of pure arousal shoot through her at the sound that leaves the other woman.  
     Fuel to the fire.  
     She groans and presses forward even as she's pulling H.G. against her, so desperate to feel more, to feel everything, that her brain is sending conflicting instructions to the rest of her body. Her mouth is working just fine though, and she parts H.G.'s lips with little effort to slide her tongue into silken depths.  
     The noise that the other woman makes at the contact, muffled as it is, sends Myka's desire to pool between her legs like nothing she's ever before experienced. And then H.G. is reciprocating with a kind of firm assurance and it's so damn clichéd, but Myka feels her knees go weak. She's thankful that she's pressed flush against the door with the pressure of another body holding her up.  
     She flattens her hand, releasing the material it had been gripping, and lets it rest against H.G.'s chest, just above her left breast. That which can only be described as a low growl leaves the inventor and suddenly H.G.'s hands are everywhere. Her palms cradle the swell of Myka's ribs, their heels just brushing the rounded edges of her breasts, but it's a calculated move and she barely has time to register the pleasant churning in her stomach before the hands are moving down along her sides and over her hips, long and slender fingers reaching around to dig into the muscles of her lower back in their descent. And then the churning becomes an out of control roil as H.G.'s fingertips finally brush against Myka's bare skin. Myka gasps, breaking the kiss to draw in desperately needed oxygen and release the groan she hadn't realised was building with quite so much fervour, but H.G.'s hand is curving around her outer thigh and her fingers are slipping beneath the thin material of the dress she's wearing and suddenly Myka can't catch her breath at all.  
     “Oh, god.” She lets her head fall back against the hard wooden surface and her eyes, that had popped open at the end of the kiss as if looking for her elusive breath, snap closed again when H.G.'s lips find her neck, and the words leave her like a prayer.  
     “Helena,” is murmured against her skin and Myka blinks open her eyes to stare stupidly up at the ceiling of the hotel room, vaguely wondering what on earth the woman is talking about. She can't find the rest of her words though and H.G. seems to sense that. Rich, tinkling laughter laughter washes over her sensitive flesh. “Darling, if you're going to be calling things out I'd much prefer it to be my name.” And Myka knows that she's being spoken to, but it's becoming increasingly hard to register anything other than the feel of H.G.'s, Helena's, hand smoothly gliding along her upper thigh, pushing her dress up with the motion. Myka bonelessly drops her head forward and slides one hand to H.G.'s shoulder. Dark eyes are staring at her, hooded and intense, and Myka feels that coil inside her wind even tighter. But something about the way she's looking at Helena has caused the other woman's movements to stall and her hand lies still against Myka's thigh, now completely covered by the material of her dress. Myka shifts, ever so slightly, but the movement betrays her frustration and H.G.'s lips curl into a smirk that makes her clench her teeth. There's about as much space between their lips as there is the rest of their bodies, which isn't a lot, and so Myka feels it when Helena speaks again. “My, my. Rather impatient, aren't we?” And Myka almost laughs, because H.G. doesn't know the half of it.  
     And so, in order to enlighten her, Myka drops her hand from Helena's neck and trails it along the length of the inventor's arm until her thumb and forefinger encircle the slim wrist that's half buried beneath the lower half of her dress. She grips it, dragging her tongue along the length of her lips, and she can feel H.G.'s chest rising and falling more rapidly. She watches a perfect mouth fall open slightly, watches Helena take a deep, steadying breath, and then pushes up on the hand in her grasp. H.G.'s fingertips graze the curve of Myka's hip bone and green eyes flutter closed once more as perfect features swim closer to her. Then there's warmth against her lips once more and fire dancing across her skin, and she's desperately trying to release her hold on Helena's hand, but it still isn't where she wants it and her brain is foggy with lust.  
     Helena’s thumb slips beneath the material of her underwear to brush the dip that travels between Myka's hip bone and abdomen and her hips cant forward without her consent, but she's too lost in the clash of teeth and tongues to care. 'Hunger' doesn't cover it, 'lust' and 'desire' don't come close; its indescribable, what she's feeling, and so she stops trying to put words to it and just **feels**.  
     And she feels the vibration of her Farnsworth milliseconds before its blaring alert reaches her ears. Her heart pounds as Helena tries to pull back, but the hand Myka has on her shoulder holds film even if the one at H.G.'s wrist has gone slack and fallen to rest at her forearm, and so the shorter woman remains close. She wants to scream with frustration. She wants to yell at herself for still being a 'good agent' even when she's being a bad one and bringing her damn Farnsworth with her “just in case”. She wants to take it out and smash it into a million pieces using only the heel of her shoe, before throwing H.G. down onto the bed so they can finish what she's started. But she doesn't do any of those things, though it's touch and go for a second as to whether her groan of disbelief with turn into a scream. Instead, she takes a deep breath and gives H.G. a look that she hopes conveys everything she's too flustered, too annoyed, to say.  
     “You should answer that,” Helena begins, her thumb stroking that same dip and making Myka's stomach muscles quiver. “Should you not?” And how had this happened? How had the tables been turned so effectively in H.G.'s favour? Myka had come here intent on being the seducer, on being the one in control, but now she was little more than putty in Helena's hands.  
     Putty that was an agent of Warehouse 13 and currently being hailed.  
     H.G.'s retrieves her hand from beneath Myka's dress and takes a step back as the taller woman crouches down to unzip the bag that had been lying completely forgotten at her feet. She reaches in and yanks out the rectangular tin case, before standing and poising her fingers at the seam in preparation for opening it. Then she pauses, glances askance at Helena and then at something over the woman's shoulder. She breezes by a wryly smiling H.G. and saunters towards the mirror perched atop a dresser that's pressed against the far right wall of the room. She scrutinizes her reflection for a moment, licking her thumb to wipe at her smudged lipstick and running a hand over her hair to smooth it. Then, with another glance towards Helena, who's turned to face her now and is still wearing a sly smile, she pops open the cover of her Farnsworth. She angles it away from the mirror, to avoid any possible reflection-catching and Pete's face blinks into view. He looks relieved, but not overly panicked.  
     “Mykes!” He grins at her and she feels guilt nip at the lining of her stomach. “Thank god, Artie thought you'd gotten lost in a section of The Creaton Labyrinth or something.” Despite herself, Myka rolls her eyes and smiles.  
     “It's The Creton Labyrinth, Pete.” A small frown creases his forehead, but he seems wholly unperturbed by her correction otherwise. “And I'm fine.” He blinks at that, cocking his head to the side the same way a dog might if you ask it to do something it doesn't quite understand.  
     “You **are** fine.” And now it's her turn to frown. “You're all prettied up and junk. You actually look really hot. What's going on?” She baulks a little at his tone.  
     “Why the stunned surprise?” She asks, and it's so obvious that she's offended that he actually notices it and his mouth works for a few seconds before any sound begins leaving it.  
     “What? Oh, no, I just meant that, uh, I didn't know...” he draws out the last word and she knows he's just buying himself time, “that you had plans tonight. That involved dressing up. Like that.” He whistles, long and long and she can see his tiny black eyes sweeping over what he can see of her. She rolls her eyes again. “Because, damn Myka, you look-”  
     “Pete, I'm on a date.” And she knows there will be repercussions later. Ones that involve persistent needling and more teasing comments than Artie could neutralize, but she's agitated and flustered and it's the only thing she can think of to get him off her back. He's opening his mouth to say something again, with that mischievous glint in his eyes that's almost always present, and Myka needs this to end now before she yells at him. “Don't wait up.” There's enough time for her to see his jaw slacken as he tries to peer around the cover of the Farnsworth that's starting to block his view, and then he's gone. She presses the audio-video device flat against the top of the dresser and stares at it for a moment, pad of her index finger rubbing at one of the smooth corners. She inhales, deep and smoothly through her nose, and turns.  
     She hadn't even noticed Helena moving, but the woman is now sitting opposite her upon a recamier at the foot of the bed. And she's watching Myka. She's watching her with a small, secretive smile on her face and it's making Myka's insides squirm. But that isn't how this is supposed to go.  
     “Now,” she said, voice dripping with seductive intent, “where were we?” Helena drags her gaze from Myka's head to her feet and back, sweeping it towards the Farnsworth before meeting Myka's eyes again.  
     “This is classed as a date in this century, is it?” H.G. asks her and Myka tilts her head, mouth curving in a smile of her own.  
     “Did you even call them dates back then?” Helena purses her lips. Myka feels her heartbeat flutter wildly.  
     “We called it courting.” The inventor is thumbing the ring on her right hand as she speaks, idly, absently, drawing Myka's gaze to it like a moth to a flame. Something that sounds a lot like Pete's voice echoes against the inner walls of her mind.  
     “Some people might call this a booty call.” The seated woman arches a dark eyebrow.  
     “And what would **you** call this?” There's genuine intrigue buried beneath a heavy accent and Myka shivers at the sound of both, feeling predatory desire climbing the ridges of her spine.  
     “Completely unavoidable.” Helena stops her idle fiddling, letting her hands rest motionless in her lap.  
     “Destined, perhaps.” There's a flash of a gun behind Myka's eyes, being raised and pointed at the woman before her, then there's a rush of every moment that's followed and suddenly she's flying again, but this time it's towards H.G. Wells and not beside her.  
     Helena manages to stand before she reaches her and Myka finds herself once more awed by the other woman's quick reflexes in the second it takes her to cross the room. Then exquisite lips are pressed against hers again and deft fingers that have crafted marvels are buried in her curls, and Myka thinks she might drown in bliss.  
     It's softer this time, somehow less hungry but no less desperate, and instead of pouring everything into the kiss it's like Helena is trying to tease her soul from her with it, when all Myka wants is to be devoured. It's as frustrating as it is glorious. Her hands drift to H.G.'s hips and she paws at them, clenching her fingers like she's trying to find purchase on a slippery rock. She pulls the slim body forcefully against her own and then slides her arms around Helena' waist, holding her against her. She feels the woman sigh into her mouth, can taste the pleasure on her tongue, and the fingers in her hair are tugging gently at her curls. And the knowledge that Myka might be wanted just as much as she's wanting hits her hard enough to break the kiss and cause her to jerk her head back. Helena's lips try to follow her and Myka can't move far because of the other woman's grip, and so when glittering dark eyes half open they're swimming so close to her own that Myka's sure she can see stars in them. The fingers in her hair fall away to trail along the length of her neck and brown eyes follow them. One hand stays at Myka's shoulder while the other dances its fingertips along her collarbone. Her breaths are coming in short, heavy gasps and every inch of her body is tingling in anticipation.  
     “How did you find me?” H.G. wonders aloud as her fingers trace patterns over the exposed skin of Myka's chest, causing her breath to hitch and her pulse to flutter wildly. If she wasn't looking at Helena, she'd be annoyed by the conversational tone of her voice. But she is looking at her, she can't stop looking at her, and desire is written as plainly as words on paper across her face. And so she gathers herself again, for what seems like the hundredth time that night, and finally slides her hands under the shirt beneath them. They both make soft sounds of gratification at the contact, but all Myka hears is Helena.  
     “You're not the only person who excels at tracking down the things she wants.” And then she's losing herself in two separate worlds of warmth.  
     There's the aggressive warmness of H.G.'s mouth, where their tongues glide against one another's and their teeth nip in a renewed battle for dominance.  
     And there's the soft warmth of the woman's back, all slender muscles and inviting flesh that yields under the pressure of Myka's fingernails as she drags them down across it and then slides her palm back up to soothe the burn. Helena moans, breaking the kiss only long enough to release it and then draw in a single gasping breath before crushing their lips together once more.  
     And then Myka is moving them. She claws at the underside of the inventor's shirt before resolving to steer her by the hips and urges them sideways and around the recamier with the persistent press of her body. They shuffle together, Myka suddenly unsteady on her heels, but H.G.'s hands are cupping her cheeks and somehow she feels supported. Like the earth could drop out from beneath them and they'd both be fine. Her palms sweep along the length of Helena's torso, skirting the sides of her rib cage and brushing the material of her bra. H.G.'s teeth sink into her lower lip and every last nerve ending in Myka's body jumps to life.  
     Her hands slide around and then out, and then her fingers are at the buttons of Helena's shirt before her brain has finished telling them what to do. But they won't work, they just fumble uselessly, and Myka wrenches her mouth away from the other woman's so that she can stare down at the offending fastenings. She furrows her brow and starts tugging furiously at the shirt, hoping it'll just pop open. Then Helena's hands are on hers, stilling them. Myka catches her gaze and Helena says nothing as she gently urges her hands out of the way and then flicks the first button free. It feels like a challenge, like the inventor is daring Myka to look away. So she doesn't.  
     It's like the countdown at New Years and Myka's just waiting for the impending explosions.  
     They start with the release of the last button.  
     Helena shifts her hands to remove her shirt and Myka's dart out to catch them at the wrists. A dark eyebrow arches in her direction and she finds herself whispering.  
     “I want to.” And then relinquishes her hold, but doesn't even wait for H.G.'s hands to fall back down to her sides before she pushing her own between the shirt and bare shoulders. She watches with rapt attention as the shirt parts.  
     It's like unveiling a goddess. Unwrapping a masterpiece. It leaves her breathless, wanting more.  
     She pushes the shirt back from Helena's shoulders and it drifts off and down to the floor entirely unhindered. It pools about her feet, forgotten.  
     Myka glances down between their scantily-clad bodies, lower lip snared between her teeth, and runs a finger along the line to the left of Helena's bellybutton. The woman shudders at the touch and Myka is reminded again that she is wanted.  
     There's a blur of motion that lasts a small eternity and through it she feels her fingers fumble with slim leather and cold metal. She hears dulcet tones talk of disadvantages and then there's a cool breeze upon her body. Her sight clears, and she's blinded by the vision of beauty that's been laid bare by her hand and lies upon the bed before her. Clad in nothing but her underwear, hair fanned out around her head like a halo. And it's pure luck that she manages to grasp the memory of pushing the other woman back against the mattress seconds earlier before it floats away forever, because Helena is looking at Myka like she wants nothing more than to devour her. And Myka thinks she's extremely inclined to let her. Then Helena reaches for her, and Myka is lost again.  
     She climbs onto the bed, onto the almost naked woman upon it and falls into the kiss that's waiting for her. H.G.'s hand cups her cheek and she parts her lips to grant Myka entrance seemingly without thought. The idea that there's no hesitation, no second thoughts or negative ruminations makes Myka ache. Helena guides her closer with a gentle insistence and Myka shifts and stretches out long legs until the lengths of their frames are pressed flush together. A whimper escapes her at the contact, full and almost painful in its exquisiteness, but its swallowed by the kiss. Side by side now, Myka tangles their legs and it's not until its happened that she realises what she's done.  
     Helena's hips rock against her upper thigh, just once, but the motion is hard and desperate despite the light and fleeting contact. And Myka's skin comes away damp, she can feel it. Her eyes fly open even as Helena screws hers tightly closed and Myka wonders if the other woman is trying to control herself. She wonders why. And then she smirks.  
     Because she always did enjoy a challenge.  
     Gaze intent on the face of the woman before her, she shifts her leg again, pressing it firmly between Helena's thighs. And it isn't much of a challenge at all, because the reaction is instantaneous. A perfect mouth falls open to release a soundless moan of pleasure and the hand at Myka's cheek slips around to tangle fingers in her curls. Myka blinks, her heart hammers, she feels dizzy. She feels drunk.  
     “You're so wet.” Helena's hips roll again, grinding against Myka's thigh as she pulls her closer so that their foreheads are touching. Myka's left hand rests against the lacy material draping H.G.'s hip, the same material that's doing absolutely nothing to hide the desire that's pooling between the woman's legs, and she clutches at the bone, moving with Helena's motions as she rocks again.  
     “You have no idea.” And H.G. manages a chuckle as she quotes Myka's earlier words back to her. And maybe it's the laughter or the echo that causes the slip, but she's down long enough to be caught entirely off-guard. And then her back is pressed flat against the mattress, and Helena is hovering over her. “But perhaps I can make you my example.”  
     Twin curtains of dark hair fall to either side of Myka's face and it's like the rest of the world just vanishes. Swallowed whole by black eyes and the very shadow of desire itself.  
     Then Helena's lips are on her again, traversing the planes of her neck and mapping the curve of her jaw, and that deep-seated and innate ability of drawing breath is gone too, utterly unable to be recalled for the minute. Myka's mouth falls open as Helena's teeth nip at her pulse point and her tongue chases the pain, licking it away. She can feel the inventor's body heat radiating from her and every brief graze of an arm or leg against Myka's skin scatters goosebumps across it. She sinks her fingers into black tresses that are as soft as silk and releases a groan at the feel of it, entirely unabashed even as Helena cranes her head back to look at her, a smirk drawn across her face.  
     “Do you have any idea,” she starts, combing H.G.'s hair back from her face only so it can fall back and she can repeat the motion over again, “how long I've wanted to do this?” Helena shifts her leg, sliding it purposefully along the outside of Myka's before slipping it between them. Myka's breath catches and her hands fist in Helena's hair as the inventor brings her knee up to glide against the reclining woman's centre. Myka's hips chase the touch, but Helena is far too quick.  
     “Tamalpais University.” Myka blinks at the name, at the memories it evokes, and then she chuckles bemusedly up into Helena's grinning face. “You have a tendency to stare.” Helena says, lips moving lightly against Myka's as she speaks. They're breathing the same air and Myka's never considered the possibility of getting a contact high in quite this regard. “Rather a lot, actually.” She runs her fingers through now tousled locks once more as she welcomes the light, torturous kisses that land between words and winds her arms beneath Helena's so that they can wrap around the hovering woman's back.  
     “Because it's so easy to just look somewhere else whenever you're in the vicinity.” There's no small amount of sarcasm to the statement and H.G.'s tinkling laughter is like music, guiding her fingers as they travel along the length of a bra strap. And then squeeze the clasp.  
     And all humour drops away as she hooks her thumbs under twin straps and urges them down. Her eyes leave Helena's and she watches the descent of the right one, gnawing at her lip as it drifts over pale skin, but she catches the glimmer of mischief in her periphery. The inventor moves, upper body straightening until she's resting back against Myka's leg. And it's easy, the way the motion causes the garment to fall free of Helena's form and hang limply in Myka's grasp.  
     Myka swallows, hard, and opens her mouth to speak, to talk of perfection and beauty, but there's nothing that can come close. That could possibly do justice to the vision before her. And so she stares, openly and unembarrassed, and Helena watches her. Black eyes burning.  
     Her heart is hammering inside her chest, not only can she hear it in her ears but she can **feel** it everywhere, and as she squirms to sit up, and Helena shifts slightly to let her, she's hit by a wave of giddy anticipation.  
     Because she's been waiting for this too.  
     She can feel H.G.'s gaze on her, focused and intense, but she can't pull her eyes away from the sight before her. Mouth dry, Myka reaches out, only sparing a half-second on wondering what the other woman might be thinking before her arm wraps around Helena’s lower back and pull her close. Her lips close around a nipple and H.G. sucks in a breath of surprise, hissing loudly as her head lolls backward and her fingernails dig into Myka's shoulders.  
     Myka feels like her senses have gone into overdrive. Overheating to the point of shutdown, only to kick-start milliseconds later and throw her a few hundred feet further into the abyss of desire. Her tongue caresses the taut peak and her eyes roll behind their closed lids as Helena's fingers slide into her curls once more to hold her in place. Hands leisurely working their way up along the inventor's torso, Myka's caught by the unexpected obsession to put a descriptor to the way Helena's skin tastes. She can't, of course.  
     Her palm drifts across the surface of the breast not receiving the lavish attention of her tongue and she closes her hand around it, just feeling. Helena moans her name. And for a second, it's all a little too much.  
     She pulls her mouth away and presses her forehead against H.G.'s collarbone, panting heavily. The thumb of her right hand dances lazily in the valley between ribcage and hip as she gently kneads the flesh filling the other. Slow and tentative, because she's never done this before.  
     Though surely mental practise had to count for something.  
     The pads of her fingers explore, experiment with pressure at the peak and find that firmer is indeed better in some cases. The sounds that leave Helena at her touches pulls arousal from the pit of her stomach to the apex of her thighs. She moans at the slightest contact as if she hasn't been touched in decades.  
     She stills. As if time has suddenly stopped around her.  
     “Myka?” Helena's voice is filled with a breathy, almost wanton quality that she isn't used to hearing.  
     “Is this...” Myka trails off, feeling silly but needing to ask anyway. Though she isn't sure why or what kind of difference the answer will make, if any at all. “Is this the first time?” She knows she doesn't need to elaborate and, quite frankly, she doesn't want to throw around words like 'bronzed' and 'your own time' at a moment like this. Her head is being urged upwards by an insistent pressure at her chin and she complies. And Helena, flushed with desire, looks so incredibly serious that it makes her heartbeat skip.  
     “I hope it shan't be the last.” And somehow, Myka's fears are erased. Ones not voiced, but conspiratorially put together at the back of her mind and waiting to spring at the most inopportune moment. Then she's being pressed into the bed again and Helena's hot mouth is breathing life into her once more, swallowing her moans even as the knee against her centre presses firmly upward to cause them. Her back arches as they leave her and practised hands have removed her bra before it reconnects with the mattress. She hears it collide with something as it's flung across the room, but there's no sign of anything braking and then there are hands at her breasts, and Myka can't remember ever being touched quite like this before.  
     Frantic fingers claw at her underwear and there's a rush of frenzied motion that she doesn't really think about. And the idea, fleeting as it is as it drifts through her mind, that she's naked before H.G. Wells doesn't have any of the suspected effects.  
     Instead, there's a warmth that feels a lot like something unmentionable. Because that isn't why Myka came here tonight.  
     The trail of fire that Helena's fingers are leaving along the inside of her thigh is enough to chase those thoughts away for now and Myka reaches out to cup the woman's cheeks and pull her forward.  
     Their lips come together, over and over again, as Helena's hand creeps higher and Myka's heart seems determined to beat out of her chest. She wants it to last forever; she wants everything now. Anticipation is crawling through her, making every muscle jump as it brushes by.  
     And then the touch her body has been screaming for arrives.  
     Helena's fingers are cool against her heat and her moan is loud and long in the silence of the room.  
     “Oh, god.” She doesn't know what to do with her hands and ends up gripping Helena's shoulder and the base of her neck as her eyes slam closed.  
     “Now, we talked about that.” She is reminded, but the agent barely hears her, slender fingers gliding through slick folds driving her to exquisite distraction.  
     And there's little need for any preamble, even Myka can feel that, but Helena's fingers dance and draw from her a veritable orchestra of sounds that Myka didn't know she was capable of making. Her vision blurs as H.G. dips her head to capture her mouth in a kiss that is so deep and sensual it sets her soul alight and makes her head spin.  
     And when Helena begins to slide two fingers inside her, it is so painfully slow that Myka thinks she's might crawl out of her own skin and so she clings to the woman hovering close to her. Wrenching her mouth away, she gasps for breath, hips undulating against her control as Helena finally eases in the full way and holds her fingers still. And Myka wants to cry out in frustration, but H.G.'s teeth and tongue are marking her neck and her nails are doing the same to the smaller woman's shoulders and she suddenly can't make any sound at all. She feels so alive, perched on the very edge of death itself. And then H.G. begins to form a rhythm and Myka's already so close it both startles and exhilarates her. Because it feels as though she's been waiting for forever, only to have it arrive too soon.  
     There are kisses peppering her neck and face, skirting her lips and even landing upon her nose. Helena's fingers are soft and gentle, caressing every shudder and every rock and roll of Myka's hips from her with a tenderness she hadn't come here expecting. She'd come here looking to sate a primal urge, to fall into her desire for the other woman and let it drown her. She hadn't anticipated being made love to. But that is, undoubtedly, what is happening. Helena is worshipping her body like a religious relic, bathing Myka in adoration and the kind of reverent affection one bestows upon a lover, not a conquest. She whispers things to her that Myka can't quite hear over the roaring of her own heartbeat as it sings in her ears. But she feels Helena's smile against her lips as she curls the fingers buried deep inside her and finally presses her thumb against the small bundle of nerves that makes Myka quiver.  
     One touch, and she begins to unravel.  
     H.G.'s fingers work unfalteringly inside her, keeping the same rhythm even as Myka's hips rock faster against her hand. Her thumb remains fixed in place, circling almost absently, and she presses her forehead to Myka's.  
     “Helena.” Suddenly desperate to say it out loud, she stutters over the name, whispering it against the inventor's mouth as their noses touch and her fingers disappear once again into dark hair. That tightly coiled spring inside her begins to quiver and, with Helena's soft and happy laughter sending warmth across her face, it explodes. Her arms slip around a slender neck as she draws in a breath and holds it, waiting for the cresting wave to hit.  
     She comes undone almost silently, back arching enough to allow Helena's free arm to slip beneath Myka and hold her close as she rides out what is likely the most intense orgasm of her life. There are fireworks behind her eyes and there's fire racing in her blood. Every nerve in her body vibrates with pleasure, then the pace of her hips halts abruptly, and she's frozen in white-hot ecstasy. She hangs there, jaw slack, as the wave crashes over her and leaves her shaking. Helena's fingers begin to move more slowly inside her, circling thumb turning to lighter strokes, drawing out every tremor and aftershock like the perfectionist that she is. And it is perfect. Even as she's releasing whimpering moans, Myka realises that. Helena is cradling her against her body, slick with a fine sheen of perspiration, and her held breath finally leaves her in a slow, shuddering stream. She's still trembling when Helena's hand stills and her muscles finally relax, H.G.'s arm stays around her even as Myka lets herself fall back bonelessly against the bed. Her head is fuzzy, thoughts thick and lethargic, and she can't open her eyes. There's a faint buzzing in her ears that isn't too distracting or unpleasant and she thinks it might be the sound of her heart humming, because it's beating as fast as the bird of the same name flaps its wings.  
     “Are you all right?” Helena's voice startles her, as hushed as it is, and it takes an impossibly monumental effort for Myka to crack open her eyelids so that she can gaze blearily up into the face of the other woman. The woman who is not the one she came here to see. That person is all bluster and bravado, all flirtatious smirks and innuendo-infused comments. And while she's seen that person vulnerable, she's never seen her like this.  
     Concern paints Helena’s face, though she doesn't wear it as a mask. Rather than adding a layer, the brush strokes of tender emotion have taken them away and left her bare. Her arms around Myka are strong even though she doesn't need to support her, they're there in case Myka needs them to be there. And, heart skipping as the earth beneath her starts to fracture, to change, Myka realises that she does.  
     She nods, not trusting her words, and then gasps, staring into fathomless brown eyes as Helena slowly slides her fingers out. Myka's thigh muscles twitch and jump as H.G. places her hand atop it, stroking over damp skin. The moment is charged with something unvoiced but undoubtedly felt, thick and heavy and intense as it settles over them, and unable to stop herself, Myka draws Helena's face towards her and eradicates the slim space between them.  
     Emotion wells up in her from nowhere and she tries not to panic at its unexpected arrival, tries not to whimper into the kiss. Because it's tender and gentle and **loving** , and she knows that the noise will be so very different from those she was making earlier. And maybe Helena can sense her distress, because she remains close, lazily exploring Myka's mouth with her tongue and stroking her upper leg, and it's like she's siphoning the anxiety from her.  
     Her breathing, once broken and uneven, starts to balance out and her hands, regaining their mobility, wander over the planes of Helena's neck and shoulders. She revels in the feel of bare skin, soft beneath her fingertips, and the warm wetness of their kiss. She shivers as H.G.'s teeth nip at her teasingly and a strong hand squeezes her hip. And it's like a switch is flicked.  
     Arousal that had never truly left surges back to life, woken from its drowsy state, and Myka brings her hands to slim, naked shoulders. She pushes with a near urgent persistence that's sprung from somewhere unexpected and Helena's mouth is eventually pried from her own. And she's laughing, breathlessly, as Myka pushes her back down onto the bed. There's no insistence that Myka need not reciprocate, it's as if Helena already knows how desperate she is, that she feels almost incapable of stopping, and she's thankful that H.G. only chuckles. In that devastatingly delicate and charming way she does.  
     She can't recall ever having felt **hungry** for another person before. Like she might die if she doesn't touch them. But it's a feeling that consumes her now as she shifts her position and straddles the inventor's thighs. She licks her lips and stares down at the woman, the **goddess** , laid before her.  
     She's imagined this, god she's imagined this, and Helena has managed to exceed, transcend, every one of her expectations. It's been so effortless; things have flowed even more fluidly than she'd been anticipating. She reaches out with a comfortable ease, muscles still trembling through the aftershocks of her climax, shaking her hands, and places her palms against the flat expanse of Helena's stomach. It moves under her touch as H.G. draws a breath at the contact and Myka glances up to find heavy-lidded eyes on her. She smiles and lets it curve into a smirk as she drops her gaze again.  
     Flawless alabaster skin is dotted with freckles, perfect in their placement as if dashed by the very hand of God, and Myka's eyes land upon on each one before the urge to count them takes her. She dips forward, bending at the hips, and her hands sink into the mattress on either side of Helena's shoulders as she presses her lips to a dark spot at her neck. H.G. sighs quietly beneath her, her hands reaching for Myka's curls, and white teeth flash against pale flesh. Her tongue darts out to tease any pain away and Myka knows that she's leaving a mark, that there will be purplish-red evidence of her presence come morning, but the thought only spurs her on. She's **branding** H.G. Wells, the man turned woman turned goddess, and it's like someone is pouring ethanol directly onto the part of her brain that governs her coherency of thought. She's drunk and hyper-aware of everything, she can feel the fine hairs on the other woman's arms as they brush against her shoulder blades; such a simple contact, to drive someone insane.  
     Myka rests her her weight on her left forearm and drags her right hand across the mattress until her fingers are dancing along the side and underside of a breast. Myka releases the now bruised and sensitive skin and trails kisses along the raised surface of Helena's collarbone. There's an urge, a burning need to touch her lips to every available inch of the woman's body. It's one she'll happily succumb to.  
     Every freckle she passes in her descent receives her attention, brief as it might be as her desperation drives her towards a destination that hasn't yet presented itself clearly in her mind. She just knows she wants more. Wants everything.  
     Her body shifts to accommodate her movements and as her lower lip brushes the peak of a firm nipple, she feels Helena's hips buck up against her. With her positioning though, there's no way the other woman can garner the friction she so desperately desires, but that doesn't seem to deter her from trying. Her hand drifts down between their bodies, stroking over toned muscles as her tongue seeks out taut flesh, teeth purposefully grazing the tip. Myka smiles around her mouthful as Helena's hips jostle her and almost throw her off. She feels her earlier confidence and sly assuredness come thundering back and she pulls her mouth away from Helena's breast to press it against her ear.  
     “There something you want?” The inventor's chuckle is deep and throaty, pitted with disbelief, and Myka wonders how often the older woman has actually been teased. She doesn't know if she'll have the strength, mental or otherwise, to do her imagined teasing justice though. Not tonight. Helena turns her head, nose brushing Myka's cheek.  
     “It has gone so very far past mere wanting, I fear.” And the taller woman tilts her head so that they're looking at one another, and H.G. leans forward so that their lips can touch again. “I **need** you, Myka.” The hand on her cheek makes Myka want to stay there, to just hold still and hang in the moment, because it's so much more perfect than she could have ever dreamed. But Helena's words send waves of heat through her, and each one builds upon the other, driving desire even higher, until a veritable tsunami of lust comes crashing down on her.  
     And then all Myka wants is to drown in it.  
     She hovers for a half-second, pressing another lingering kiss against H.G.'s parted lips, and then resumes her descent.  
     She doesn't know how it's possible. To want something so much, something you haven't previously experienced and so have no real reason to want it so desperately. But she does, and idly wonders if Helena can feel how much she wants it as Myka kisses her way through the valley of her breasts and across an arching torso, kissing every freckle within her reach. She uses her knee to urge apart bare legs and then settles between them when H.G. complies with a whispering moan. Dragging her fingernails over smooth hipbones, Myka's mouth reaches the waistband of Helena's underwear and she presses a kiss to the front of the material, almost groaning as the hips beneath her hands roll at the contact.  
     Her heart is thundering in her ears and she loses herself in movements that are dream-like as she hooks her fingers around the last remaining barrier and takes it with her as she slides down the bed. The underwear is tossed aside, Myka doesn't know where, can't pry her eyes from the sight before her. H.G. Wells, naked, fingers tangled in the bedspread as she gasps with unbridled wanting. A burning lust. All for her. **Because** of her. Myka licks her lips, watching as H.G.'s hooded gaze follows the path of her tongue. And is reminded, again, that she is wanted.  
     Helena's legs are as soft and smooth against her lips as the rest of her and Myka takes her time as she kisses her way along their lengths, alternating between the two. The other woman's breathing is hard, chest rising and falling rapidly with each intake and exhalation, and Myka is too focused on everything about H.G. to notice that her own breathing pattern is falling into sync.  
     When her lips tease the inside of a pale thigh Helena gasps again, hips rocking forward and her legs bending at the knees in some attempt to maintain control. Myka feels the bed dip slightly as the inventor presses the heels of her feet into the mattress and she glances up along the length of her to watch Helena's fingers disappear into black tresses. Dark eyes are closed, kiss-reddened lip caught between brilliant white teeth, and a small frown creases her forehead. Myka presses her cheek against a quivering thigh.  
     “You're so beautiful.” She means it, knows that H.G. knows she means it, and more than suspects that the woman is well aware of just how aesthetically pleasing she is to all who lay eyes on her. After all, Myka's seen how people look at her. How people respond to her presence, and accent, and her flirtations. It's impossible to not be taken in, not be captivated; they're only human.  
     Helena’s gaze is lazy as she opens her eyes and lets it drift across Myka's features. And as it travels with a precise slowness over her face, Myka's chest constricts almost painfully as the thought swells inside her.  
     She feels loved.  
     And tries to pour every ounce of what that does to her into the kiss she places at the apex of the reclining woman's thighs.  
     There's an explosion as her senses overload, scent and taste and touch all mingling to create perfection. Helena’s hips surge upwards and Myka's arms wind around her upper legs to pull her back against the bed. Arousal churns her stomach in a way that is exquisite as she presses the flat of her tongue against molten heat and Helena moans her name.  
     And the insane thought that H.G. can make **anything** sound sexy floats through her mind for a second or two before it's obliterated by the hunger than consumes her at her first true taste of the other woman.  
     She was wrong before, **this** is intoxication. This heady, unstable state of mind that has her sure she'll lose consciousness at any given moment. It's frightening and wonderful and so very overwhelming.  
     And even though she's never done this before, any inclination to be nervous or terrified doesn't occur to her.  
     There's only soft moans, the taste of Helena on her tongue and the feel of hips undulating in time with her strokes.  
     All else ceases to exist.  
     Myka's fingernails dig into the tops of H.G.'s thighs as the gasping woman's hand grips fistful of curls, and she opens her eyes to see that Helena's other hand is buried in her own hair, tugging at it as she rocks against Myka's mouth. Her back arches off the bed every time the tip of Myka's tongue drifts teasingly over her clit and her body trembles nearly constantly. Wetness pools between Myka's legs at the sight and another need grips her.  
     She pulls her mouth away, ignoring the cry of protest that flows from H.G.'s lips, and draws back her right arm from the leg which it had been curled around. Taking deep breaths, she traces intricate nonsense patterns up along a shaking thigh and smirks as she scribes her name there, branding the woman with invisible ink. She wants to take her time,  
spend an eternity touching and exploring every inch of the masterpiece laid bare before her. Like a new book, learning her favourite lines and chapters, putting the plot together only to unravel it at the end. But the need that claws at her won't allow for dawdling, and besides, there will be time for eternity later.  
     Because Myka knows it can't end here.  
     She knows this is just the beginning.  
     She presses her fingers against warm heat, parting slick folds effortlessly and experimentally trailing the pads of her middle and index digits through copious wetness. The hand that had slipped from her hair now clings to the wrist of her unoccupied one and the pressure betrays every ounce of Helena's desperation in a way that even her gasping prayers cannot. She mumbles His name and Myka grins.  
     “We talked about that.” She doesn't know if Helena hears her sly comment; there's no response, and she wonders how much of that is to do with the fact that she's slowly easing slender fingers inside her.  
     She drops kisses along Helena's thigh and then peppers them over her abdomen, letting her fingers slide in at a pace she hopes is as torturous in its leisure as Helena's was. Because even though she's just as desperate as the woman writhing beneath her, Myka can't help but want to draw everything out just a little bit longer.  
     So she holds her hand still when she's finally inside, like Helena had done with her, just feeling, and can't hold on to the breath that leaves her when muscles contract around her fingers. **That** is something she's never felt before. She adds it to her ever growing mental list of things not to be forgotten.  
     Then she gives in to the unfaltering rock and roll of H.G.'s hips, and begins a slow, steady rhythm.  
     She rests her forehead against a leg, kissing the skin there as she listens to the sounds that are leaving Helena in a now near constant stream. Where Myka was silent, H.G. very much likes to make herself heard. And Myka smirks, thankful for that. It lets her know she's doing just fine. She marvels at the way her fingers glide in and out unhindered, at the feel of silken heat and just how wet the other woman is for her. She'd never truly considered the unbridled sensuality of the female form before H.G. Wells and now, as she watches the pace of her hips match Myka's increasing thrusts, sees the way the inventor runs her fingers through her own hair with such franticness it's like she's no longer in control of what she's doing, she can't imagine there being anything to rival this.  
     The hand at her wrist is suddenly grasping at hers and it's with a kind of detached attention that Myka laces their fingers together. It's only when H.G. squeezes it tightly and groans out words of her impending release that she remembers this is the first time she's receiving this kind of pleasure from another person since arriving in this century. And that can't possibly be down to a lack of offers.  
     She chose Myka.  
     And Myka squeezes back as she dips her head and closes her lips around that bundle of nerves that can drive a person to such blissful heights of pleasure. Her eyes traverse the path of perfection laid out before her and she watches the emotion play across H.G.'s face as she begins to move her fingers more quickly, sliding them deep with every thrust. The tip of her tongue flicks rhythmically across a rounded peak and Helena's leg begins to tremble against her. It's like the origin of an earthquake and Myka is captured by the way the tremors ripple outwards.  
     Helena gasps. Once, twice, and then Myka's name leaves her in a long, keening moan.  
     Her body arcs upwards, orgasm ripping through her with enough force to bring her upright and the hand that was in her hair is now grasping at Myka's curls, but she isn't pushing or pulling. She's just clinging, like the contact is her anchor, the only thing keeping her from floating off into the stratosphere.  
     The tremors rock her body, Myka can feel them, and it's not until the shaking subsides, just a little, and the hand in her own loosens its grip that she slows the movement of her fingers. Helena's hips give a final, weak jerk as Myka pulls her head back and kisses the dip at her abdomen. She drags out all aftershocks, enjoying the quiet whimpers of pleasure that leave Helena, and finally stills her movements entirely when H.G. falls back against the bed.  
     She's painted quite the picture; stunning woman lying naked, breathing heavily, utterly spent. All thanks to her.  
     Sliding her fingers out, she bites her lip at the hiss that leaves Helena and, for a moment, struggles against two separate desires. The more innocent of the two wins out, and she crawls towards the head of the bed on all fours, then lowers herself to lie beside the other woman. The Time Traveller.  
     Myka doesn't say anything as she props herself up on her elbow. She's content with the silence of the moment and spends it committing every graceful line of H.G.'s face to memory.  
     As if she could ever forget.  
     Then dark eyes blink lazily open and time just seems to fall off the edge of the Earth as they stare at one another. Myka's lips curve despite there being no command for them to do so, it's unstoppable. Their fingers are still locked together, Myka having pulled H.G.'s limp arm along in her ascent, and she strokes her thumb along the inventor's knuckles.  
     After an indeterminable amount of time, Myka watches as H.G. shifts, with some noted effort, to lie on her side so that they're facing one another and then brings their joined hands up to her mouth.  
     She kisses the back of Myka's hand, and Myka feels her smile flourish.  
     There are a million things they could say to one another, she's sure. Some pointless, others so far beyond meaningful Myka doesn't know where to start. Helena's lips against hers steal away any potential decision making though, and she wonders if her inner conflict was written on her face.  
     Then she wonders how a kiss can possibly be so tender, so **loving**.  
     And then she doesn't think anything at all for a long while.  
     Not until a need for oxygen forces them apart and Helena speaks for the first time in what could easily be hours.  
     “You can't tell me you've never done that before.” The way her eyes are boring into Myka's, from beneath long lashes and with stars dancing in them, it's obvious H.G. isn't talking about the kissing. Myka chuckles, shifting closer to the woman beside her as a sudden rush of coldness makes her shiver.  
     “I'm a quick study.” She says quietly, following Helena with her eyes as the inventor sits and reaches for the blanket, that had been folded neatly, lying crumpled at one corner of the bed. She shakes it out and lies back down beside Myka with a heaviness that betrays her fatigue, draping it over them. They curl together, legs tangling and hands meeting to once more twine fingers. For the first time, unease worms its way beneath her skin, and her gaze darts as she attempts to fight the sudden urge to look away from piercing dark orbs. “I...” she hesitates, feeling foolish for beginning at all, “was okay, then?” Helena's laughter leaves her in a burst and Myka can't help the way her face falls.  
     Because despite how comfortable and how right everything about the evening has felt, she's still nervous about what it all means. At least to Helena; Myka's well aware that she's in over her head. But then Helena's expression softens and she extracts her hand to cup Myka's cheek. And suddenly there's more than stars shining in brown eyes and it steals Myka's breath.  
     “Worth waiting a century for.”


End file.
